


Transformation

by Morgan Briarwood (morgan32)



Category: The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:09:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan%20Briarwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic comes in shades of grey; alchemy in black and white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calcination

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elevenoclock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elevenoclock/gifts).



The ch-ch-ch-chuck, ch-ch-ch-chuck of the train wheels is so familiar Bailey can fall asleep to the rhythm as easily as he once slept to the sound of wind in the tall grass. The smells in this carriage are just as familiar, but not so comforting: the sharp stink of the big cats raises hairs at the back of his neck as he moves past their cages. One panther stretches as he watches, paws outstretched in a sinuous bow and as it rises the panther growls lazily, as if to warn Bailey he has been noticed.

Bailey opens the door at the far end of the carriage with one hand on his hat. Wind billows his clothing as he steps into the open and reaches for the rail of the next carriage. His fingers curl around the cold steel, he steps into the wind and he pulls himself across in a motion as practised and graceful as the acrobats’ soaring flight. Deftly he swings himself up to the next door while closing the first behind him with his foot. In moments, he is through and out of the wind. Releasing his grip on his hat he takes a moment to straighten his clothing. The hat is crooked, but Bailey doesn’t notice that.

When he takes a breath, the cat-scent is gone. Now he can smell delicate incense mingled with cigarette smoke. It makes him smile and he raises a hand to knock on the frame ahead of him, that is filled not with a door, but a heavy crimson curtain.

He feels no surprise when he hears her voice an instant before his knuckles touch the timber.

“Please come in, Bailey. I will make tea for both of us.”

The curtain swings aside of its own accord and Bailey ducks slightly as he passes through. Tsukiko kneels before her polished blackwood table. A small wisp of steam rises from the small kettle beside her. Bailey takes his seat opposite, familiar with what is required of him for this. He says nothing as she works, her movements graceful and precise as she prepares tea following a ceremony far older than either of them. The train wheels continue their ch-ch-ch-chuck rhythm and Tsukiko’s careful motions seem to follow the sound as if it is music so the whole ritualised dance becomes as hypnotic as the circus’s living statues: the wheels, the gentle warmth of steam, the soft swish of Tsukiko’s silk robe, the quiet click of china, the tinkle of pouring water…all a hallucinatory whole. Bailey is caught in the spell, floating, until she places the shallow cup before him. Dreamily, he lifts the cup to his lips. He pauses, inhaling the scent of matcha and jasmine and finally takes a sip.

The slightly bitter taste on his tongue brings Bailey back to himself. He doesn’t really care for green tea. Since taking his place in the circus he has come to enjoy the strong, black tea that the Murray twins’ father makes – with thick cream and just enough sugar to take off the bitter edge. Tsukiko’s tea is a weak thing by comparison, but he knows the taste is not the point. He sets his cup down and waits while she sips from her own cup. Only then is he free to speak.

“A letter found me in Berlin. From Isobel’s daughter.”

Tsukiko answers only with a slight smile, encouraging him to continue.

“She is twenty-one in May and interested in joining us. She is, it seems, quite a talented illusionist.”

Tsukiko’s serene expression does not change, but Bailey sees the slight tremor in the hand that raises her cup. “The circus does lack an illusionist,” she says.

“I am no longer sure how many years I have held the circus,” Bailey confesses.

“Is that important to you?”

“Not particularly,” he answers truthfully, “but I still look eighteen.”

Tsukiko cocks her head to one side, her hair falling in a black curtain as she studies him intently for a moment. “Nineteen,” she says eventually. “Perhaps even twenty.”

Bailey laughs. “So I have aged two years in…twenty? Or is it more?”

“Many more.”

Bailey knew that, actually. “It isn’t good for us, Tsukiko. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“The challenge is suspended, not concluded.”

“And so are we? Is that it?”

“Something holds us all in suspension,” Tsukiko concedes. “I don’t believe it is Celia and Marco. Not now.” She offers that enigmatic smile again.

“I don’t think it’s me, either,” Bailey objects, then reconsiders, “Though,” he admits, “I could be part of it.”

“We are all responsible for the circus,” Tsukiko says, “but none more than you, Bailey.”

“I know.” Bailey nods, coming to a decision. “I will invite Melissa to demonstrate her skills when we are next in London. It’s time, I think, for us to move on if we can.”

Bailey finishes the tea and sets his cup down, waving away her offer of a second cup. “Thank you, Tsukiko,” he says formally.

“When Miss Martin performs, be prepared for the release,” Tsukiko warns as Bailey rises.

He nods again. “You will help?”

“I will help.”


	2. Dissolution

_Le Cirque des Rêves_ is at its quietest shortly after dawn. The patrons are gone, the circus closed for the day. The performers are in their personal tents, sleeping or preparing for sleep.

Tsukiko is alone in the ice garden.

Everything in this tent is white. Everything, that is, except the colours she has brought with her: the glossy black of her hair and the golden hue of her skin with its alchemical waterfall of tattoos. Cold crystals crunch beneath her bare feet but she leaves no tracks behind her as she walks. She comes to the ice fountain and trails her fingers into it. As the cool water engulfs her fingers, her flesh turns pale, then as white as the ice garden itself.

Tsukiko withdraws her fingers and the colour slowly returns to her skin. She rubs her fingertips with her thumb as sensation returns.

The fountain is surrounded by a hundred tiny, gleaming flowers carved of ice. She bends to pluck one and raises it to her nose. Its scent is sweet, but faint. The flower has five perfect petals, each iridescent white shading to palest purple in the centre. It is quite lovely.

With a joyful smile, Tsukiko tosses the flower into the air above her head. There are snowflakes falling from the top of the tent and as the flower reaches them it vanishes into the snow. The snowflakes become a rain of petals. She laughs aloud and raises her face to catch them on her skin. She is embraced by the scent of cherry blossom, the petals caressing her skin as they fall like gentle rain.

Tsukiko raises her arms as she turns on the spot as if to embrace the fall entire. She turns faster, her arms outstretched, palms up, rising to her toes like a naked ballerina, the dark curtain of her hair rising around her like a cloak.

The ice begins to rise through her. First her feet become pale, then white. Her ankles are next, her lower legs, her knees. She continues to turn and ice petals of cherry blossom fall all around the tent. When the ice reaches her buttocks, Tsukiko’s flesh transforms into that strange white, but her tattoos remain, so the spreading ice sparkles are decorated with the symbols of her former craft.

When the transmutation reaches her breasts, Tsukiko becomes not ice, but snow. Her body flies apart – not a shattering, but an expansion and a merging. She has become one with the ice garden. She has become Celia’s creation.

The sensation is indescribable. She is ice, but not cold. She is white, but not colourless. She is falling, but in no danger of touching the ground. She is in a million pieces and she has never been so whole. She is joy itself. She is beauty.

She is love.

When Tsukiko wakes, her pillow is damp with her tears.


	3. Separation

The woman in the grey dress stands still in the hotel foyer. No one appears to look her way but people move around her, avoiding the space in which she stands, moving around her as if they simply intended to go that way all along. It is like a flow of water around a stone. The woman’s dress is the height of genteel fashion: grey wool overdress gathered into a bustle at the rear and with a large silver buckle at her narrow waist. A simple ivory-on-black cameo graces her throat and little silver spheres dangle from her ears. She wears white gloves so the only skin that can be seen (if anyone could see her to observe it) is her face and the top of her neck.

It is some hours before the woman finally decides to move. She sighs to herself and steps toward the hotel’s reception desk. A clerk looks up at her approach. She rests one gloved hand on the polished oak desk as she speaks to him softly, asking a single question. The clerk replies, the woman thanks him and then turns away. As she breaks eye contact, the clerk shakes his head as if to dispel an errant thought and returns to his work. He will retain no memory of the brief encounter.

The woman in the grey dress takes the stairs up to the floor the clerk indicated and finds the room she seeks easily. The door is identical to all the others: solid, dark-stained wood with a number in polished brass. She knocks on the door and it opens almost immediately.

The man on the other side of the door wears a suit the exact same shade of grey as the woman’s dress. The woman is pleased to see she has judged her attire correctly. She knows him well, but has never learned his name, so she does not greet him, but waits for him to greet her. Though they have not seen each other for many years, he shows no surprise. Indeed, he smiles warmly as he invites her inside.

The room is not what she expected. The books are here, stacked in seemingly haphazard piles, and there is a large desk with strange equipment atop it, but the room is high-ceilinged and has large windows. It is well-lit and welcoming.

She closes the door behind her and runs one hand over the side of her dress, smoothing out a wrinkle in the fabric. “It is to be a circus, then,” she says.

His welcoming smile disappears. “It is not your concern,” he says sharply.

“It is entirely my concern,” she replies, her voice soft but determined. “You begin these things and abandon them like children bored by broken toys. I was there at the finish.”

“I have not forgotten,” he says.

“You agree, then?”

His eyes become stern and cold. “I do not. The principles are already bound to this challenge and the ground-rules agreed. You may not disrupt it. You surely understand the consequences if that were permitted.”

“I do. But you misunderstand _me_. You always did.” The woman sees the knife of her words reach its target.

He turns away from her, moving to a side table. “Regrettably, I have no tea. May I offer you coffee?”

“Thank you. No.” She waits with polite and studied patience while he pours hot coffee from a tall, silver pot into a small cup. Using a tiny spoon he drops a single crystal of sugar into the cup, then adds cream. The spoon tinkles against the china as he stirs the liquid. He turns back to her with the cup in his hand, but does not drink. The woman smiles inwardly at his hesitation, aware that her presence has caused it. She does not let the smile reach her face.

“I did not come,” she asserts firmly, “for your consent. I will be a witness to this.” She is aware he can prevent it, if he chooses, but she stands her ground, her gaze steady.

“Then why this visit?” he asks. He sounds genuinely interested. He sips the coffee at last.

“To allow you to set boundaries.”

Her concession surprises him. The emotion is fleeting but unmistakable. For the briefest moment, for an eternity, he hesitates.

“What name are you using now?” he asks her.

“I haven’t decided yet.” It is not a lie. If she is to be a circus act she will require a stage name of some sort. He has always insisted that names are insignificant. Perhaps that is why, to her, they are of extreme significance.

“Tsukiko,” he says softly.

The name, her true name, ripples through the room, thickening the air. This is a binding.

“You will not act in any way to disrupt the challenge,” he instructs, his voice suddenly deep and resonant. “You will not reveal by word or action that you know me or that you know anything about the contest or contestants.”

She objects, “Unless you have selected a fool as your student, I will not be able to conceal myself for long.”

“He is no fool. You may not reveal yourself. You may be truthful if you are discovered. Do you accept these restrictions?”

She had anticipated more. He could have insisted she not use the magic he had taught her. Instead he asked only for her secrecy and her neutrality. She would have given those without the asking.

Tsukiko nods. “I accept the boundaries.”

The air seems to cool by several degrees. For a moment, she cannot take a breath. Then the threads of binding loosen and she fills her lungs.

“Welcome,” he says, “to _Le Cirque des Rêves_.”


	4. Conjunction

The  river  flows slowly beneath the graceful arch of the red bridge. Scarlet chrysanthemums float upon the surface of the water. Close to the bridge, a single tree grows angled over the water, its branches stretching out in a curve that mirrors the bridge. The breeze stirs a shower of blossom from the tree: petals whirl and fall upon the water below. Though they fall softly, as each petal touches the water it creates a tiny ripple. Each ripple sparkles in the sunlight so the river appears awash with diamonds and rubies.

Tsukiko gestures with a smile. The falling cherry blossom petals slow as if the breeze itself pauses to preserve the perfection of the scene. The pale petals deepen in colour, so slowly it is impossible to discern the change happening, yet the gentle fall is now pink where once it was the palest, blushing white. Now it is almost cerise. Now closer to red and finally, now, as deep a red as the chrysanthemums that float below.

“Quite lovely,” Hinata murmers.

Her kimono brushes the trunk of the cherry tree as she walks toward the river, stopping where the next, smallest step forward will trail her kimono in the water. She raises her hand to Tsukiko’s arm, long fingers stroking the silk.

Tsukiko feels her touch as a spreading warmth under her skin as she turns to meet Hinata’s dark and lovely eyes. She caresses her painted cheek and sees Hinata close her eyes to savour the touch. She inhales deeply, the mingled scents of cherry blossom, ginger and cream. The gentle breeze catches a wisp of Hinata’s hair and the falling pink petals settle on her head and shoulders. One blushing petal has fallen into the open neck of Hinata’s kimono and rests upon her skin above her breasts. Tsukiko gathers the petal onto her fingertips; it is almost the same colour as her own polished fingernails.

Hinata sways closer until Tsukiko can feel the heat of her body, the beating of her heart. She tilts her head back a little and cherry blossom falls around them, brushing her cheeks, catching in her eyelashes until she blinks.

And feels gentle fingers within the silk at her neck.

Her concentration dissolves. The petals falling around them return to their pale, blushing white. Tsukiko releases her breath in a long sigh.

Cherry blossom is a soft carpet beneath them. They are alone with the magic. Alone with each other.

When they finally rise from their fragrant bed, Tsukiko gazes out across the river scene she created. A thousand scarlet chrysanthemums still float upon the water, but now in the centre of each one sits a candle with a merrily dancing flame.

She feels Hinata’s warm breath against her ear. She hears the teasing whisper.

“Your move.”


	5. Fermentation

You enter the garden through a painted archway.

It is a fine day in late summer. Sunlight filters through the leaves of the surrounding trees, dappling the grass and the water.

A _roji_ – a winding pathway – leads you by an indirect but picturesque route through the tranquil garden. Following the _roji_ gives you plenty of time to appreciate the beauty of the garden: its fragrant flowers, the _tōrō_ – a stone lantern – exquisite statues and sculpted trees. Your reach a narrow wooden bridge over a bubbling stream. Your shoes seem very loud against the wood as you cross.

Only when you reach the other side do you catch your first glimpse of the _chashitsu_ nestled between the weeping willows.

The tea house is a small, unassuming building, giving no hint of the wonders you have been told lie within. The pillars are dark-stained wood. The _shoji_ are pale bamboo and paper. You slide one of the _shoji_ aside to enter. Within, there is a subtle scent of incense and the quiet tinkle of wind chimes.

You walk into the serenity of the tea house and come to the _tokonoma_ , a small alcove used to display flowers or art in honour of the _kami_. At first, the _tokonoma_ appears to be empty, a fact curious enough to tug at your attention. You step closer to the alcove. The air within the alcove is filled with tiny sparkles, like dust-motes trapped in a beam of sunlight. You reach out and the whirling sparkles flock toward your skin. You move your hand and a trail of golden light follows your gesture, as if you paint calligraphy in the air. Marvelling at the effect you gesture again, tracing the shape of a familiar kanji: the symbol for fire. You don’t know why you chose that one, perhaps because the sparkling air reminds you of sparks from burning wood.

For a moment, fire glows brightly in the air before your eyes. It shimmers and becomes, for the briefest moment, a very different kanji: water. Then it dissolves into dust once more. You catch your breath, amazed by the illusion…if it was an illusion.

When you move away from the _tokonoma_ , you see a woman waiting within. She offers a silent bow and invites you to sit. You are captivated by her kimono. Pale green silk around her zōri, shading to white just below her obi, which is, unusually, patterend: bamboo and leaves painted on the silk. The inner sleeves are a deeper green, long and floating as if in a breeze. The woman wears it with a rare grace and poise. The perfect oval of her face is painted white, like a maiko, but the paint on her mouth and eyes is like nothing you have seen before. Her scarlet lips sparkle like rubies. Around her eyes is a delicate but intricate pattern of filigree and geometic lines. The pattern seems to move and change before your eyes, much like the sparkling air in the _tokonoma_.

Your visit has barely begun, and already you are captivated.


	6. Distillation

Tsukiko lies on a silk-covered tatami, her arms outstretched. There is a man kneeling beside her naked body, carefully etching a design of Tsukiko’s creation into her skin. There is some pain, but less than she expected. When he is finished, the tattoo will begin in the centre of her back, curl around her left hip and encircle her left thigh. It will not be complete, not for years, but this first part of the design will be enough for now.

Soon, her mentor has told her, she will begin her great challenge. It will require all of her courage and all of her learning. This tattoo will be a kind of primer she will carry with her: talisman and power-source in her very flesh. She knows little about the challenge that awaits her but is already considering how to incorporate her victory into the design. The tattoo will grow with time and experience. If she lives long enough, eventually all of her flesh will be tattooed.

The idea came to her during one of her lessons a year ago.  She was concentrating on the sixth stage of alchemical transformation: _distillation_. The alchemist must discover the truest, most pure essence of the thing she is working to transform. Once, she knew, alchemists had used complex equipment, fire and chemicals to achieve the fabled fifth distillation – the quintessence. Tsukiko was learning a more philosophical and less physically hazardous method.

It was like the tea ceremony, she realised on that day. Each step had to be precisely executed, for to waver even for a moment introduced impurities and spoiled the work. Yet the purpose, the essence of the process was not the physical outcome. A tea ceremony was not about drinking the tea – any clumsy fool could pour hot water on matcha powder. Distillation was not about transforming lead to gold. Both were about the journey, the discovery, the act of transformation itself. If you could turn water and matcha leaves into tea, you could turn lead to gold, or the self into…

And from that thought she backed away, frightened. She needed to anchor herself, not to lose herself in the magic.

She saw the solution in her mind, then. This swirl of images and symbols, this sea of knowledge could be tamed. She would master it. She would make it part of herself forever.

Tsukiko rises from the tatami as the artist finishes the tattoo. She can feel the power in the ink. It is a tingle of electricity in every line and curve. It isn’t painful, it isn’t pleasurable. It is powerful. She gathers the energy into herself and whispers a word under her breath to seal it. She closes her eyes, concentrating on the new sensation. She raises her arms, stretching the newly-marked skin. This causes a little pain but then she feels the skin seal itself, a healing that should have taken weeks completed in mere moments.

She feels an instant of doubt. This is a momentous and irreversible change. But that is the nature of things, and she has never been a person given to looking backward. Transformation can never be undone. Distillation cannot be reversed.

Tsukiko smiles to herself. She is ready for the challenge.


	7. Coagulation

It is late in the afternoon and the fishing boats are returning. The sun is behind their sails so they look like paper lanterns floating on the water.

There! She sees the boat which carries her father. It has a blue stripe on the sail and is one of the first to return. They must have had a lucky day. There will be fish for supper tonight!

Her stomach aches at the thought and she pushes a fist into her belly as if that can make her feel full. There was only sour rice for supper last night, and little of that. Please let there be fish tonight!

She runs home along the cliff path, her bare feet dislodging small rocks as she runs. Once, she trips in her eagerness, but she picks herself up quickly, rubs dust off her hands and runs onward. As she rounds the corner to the little shack she calls home, she sings out to her mother, bursting with the news that the boats are coming in.

She stops, short, when she sees who is there with her mother.

The man in grey is not known to her by name but she has seen him often, recently. She knows he is a wealthy man staying in the village. She knows he watches her often, or perhaps watches all of the children. Now he stands with her mother and her mother looks…strange. She skids to a halt, bows her head and approaches more respectfully, suddenly afraid.

The man in grey takes a step toward her.

Her muscles tense. Her body wants to take a step back but something makes her fight the impulse and hold her ground. She looks up at him.

He offers her a gracious and utterly unexpected bow. “You are not the cleverest girl in the village,” he announces, “but you are the bravest. Your father probably tells you there is too much _ka_ in your spirit.”

He is right about her father, but it seems disloyal to say such a thing, so she remains silent.

“I say, you merely need to learn balance,” he asserts. “A little more _do_ to anchor that _ka_. What do you think?”

She glances at her mother for guidance, but finds no help there. So she says, “I thought water was the balance for fire, not earth.”

She sees approval in his expression. “I would like you to come with me,” he announces.

Her mother nods encouragingly and her heart sinks a little.

She has heard of such things. Other children from the village have “gone to the city” with rich men. She does not know why, but is canny enough to have noticed that it doesn’t happen to children who always have enough to eat.

“To the city?” she asks, to confirm it.

“Not to the city,” the man in grey answers. “To another place where you will learn many things.”

“What things?” she asks suspiciously.

He merely smiles mysteriously. “But if I tell you that now, it will spoil the adventure.”

Her mother nods to her again, but still she hesitates. Maybe she isn’t the cleverest, like he said, but she is not foolish. Her mother can tell her to go and she will have to obey, but the man in grey seems to want her to agree. So she has a choice, perhaps.

“Will there be fish to eat?” she challenges, unconsciously pushing her fist into her belly once more.

He does not smile this time, but answers seriously, “Yes, there will be fish to eat. You will have to study hard but you will not be hungry again. Will you come with me?”

She does not look to her mother this time. “Yes, I will.” New things to learn and fish to eat. It seems like a good prospect to her.

The man in grey offers her his hand. “Then come. We have far to go.”

 _Now?_ Fear grips her once again, but he called her brave and she _is_ brave. She takes his hand.

They take the coastal path away from the village and as they walk Tsukiko watches the setting sun cast a rippling red path across the ocean. It seems to be the only colour that she can see, that red, red water and many years later she will remember that setting sun every time she sees the signature red of the _rêveurs_.


End file.
